The Great Alone

by Janet Dailey

  Turning, he saw her. A smile lighted his face, and he broke into a trot, heading directly to her. Tasha started crying with happiness as she moved forward to embrace the son who had left her as a boy and had come back a man of sixteen. Her fingers trembled as she touched the short dark whiskers that outlined his jaw. His face swam in her tearblurred vision, distorting the image just enough to let her see traces of boyhood softness in his features.

  “You have come back.” She could hardly believe it. She had almost despaired of ever seeing him again. “I thought there would be too many new places and things for you to see and you would stay.”

  Mikhail laughed at her fears, and the laugh had the deep-throated sound of a man. “I have much to tell you about all that I’ve seen.” His glance included Zachar. “And there are many more places I will see. I have been to navigator’s school and learned how to sail ships.” His arm remained about Tasha’s shoulders as he shifted to greet his older brother. Then he noticed the little girl standing beside Zachar and crouched down to her level. “Who are you?” He smiled at Larissa, who quickly hid behind Tasha’s skirts.

  “My daughter,” Zachar answered for her. “Her name is Larissa.” He studied Mikhail carefully.

  Briefly Tasha related the story of her daughter-in-law’s drowning. Mikhail sobered, but it didn’t last for long. This occasion was too full of joy for all of them to let death cast its shadow over it.

  Now there was too much to tell, many gaps to fill in, many incidents to relate. So much had happened to each of them during the years they were apart. They spent most of the day filling in those missing years.

  That night, Mikhail and Zachar attended the praznik Baranov gave to celebrate the arrival of the long-awaited supply ship. Fresh meat was roasted over fires that were built at the village’s new square, The huge vat of fermenting kvass was filled with buckets of vodka from the ship’s cargo. Everyone had a mug of it and a packet of tobacco uncut with willow bark.

  Again and again, toasts were drunk to the party’s guest of honor, the skipper of the Orel. Yakov Egoryevich Shiltz, they called the burly Englishman whose red hair and multitude of tattoos marked him as different from them. James Shields, a shipbuilder by trade and a lieutenant in the Russian Imperial Navy, always answered their salutes with his own—fracturing the Russian language in the process, much to the promyshleniki’s amusement.

  The tidal wave at Three Saints Bay had destroyed the few musical instruments the settlement had had, but two of the newly arrived reinforcements had brought their guzlas with them and the praznik rang with music. The promyshleniki raided the Aleut dwellings and hauled the girls to their celebration. They ladled the vodka-laced kvass into cups for their girls and whirled them about, cavorting in high-stepping abandon. They danced and sang the mournful Siberian ballads of their homeland.

  Mikhail was among the first to leave the party, staggering off to the bunkhouse with his arm around an Aleut girl; and Zachar wasn’t long to follow him. But it was dawn before the last man staggered into his bed.

  Meanwhile Baranov read his mail and the long letter of instruction from Shelekhov. It reiterated the need to establish new colonies, especially on the southeast coast. To that end, Shelekhov had sent Shields to him. Baranov was to begin building ships to accomplish these goals.

  PART TWO

  Southeast Alaska

  CHAPTER XX

  Sitka Sound

  Late Spring 1802

  The distinctive truncated cone of Mount Edgecumbe marked the entrance to Sitka Sound, its snow-capped peak blending with the heavy clouds. The shores of the main island were forested with towering stands of cedar, spruce, and fir, a nearly impenetrable mass of ferns and bushes growing in their shade. More islands dotted its coastal waters, adding to the maze of bays, fiords, and estuaries. Bald-headed eagles spiraled slowly in the sky that they shared with flocks of seabirds.

  The copper-bottomed brig the Sea Gypsy, out of Salem, Massachusetts, nosed her way into the sound. A year’s exposure to the elements had faded her bright yellow waist to the dark green of her topsides, but the gingerbread trim on her stern and the quickwork on her bow were undamaged by the beating the brig had taken sailing around the Horn. She was small and well built, handy and fast, her size and maneuverability making her ideally suited for the intricacies of the Northwest coast. Some in the sea trade considered brigs like the Sea Gypsy the pirate’s own vessel.

  Screens of dried bullock hides brought from the California coast, lined her decks to shield the crew from arrows. An opening was left at the stern, where the trading was done. In addition to the swivel guns at the bulwarks, the Sea Gypsy carried ten cannons, shotted with grape, a gunner’s match beside each of them. Her crew were armed with muskets and pistols—with cutlasses and boarding pikes available as well. In her hold, she carried an assortment of trading goods—shiny copper trinkets, boxes of beads, bundles of clothing, and bolts of red and blue duffel cloth—but her cargo consisted mainly of rum and crates of old muskets, relics of the Revolutionary War that had been purchased cheaply from the newly formed American government.

  This was the heart of Tlingit country. One of their villages sat on a short peninsula below a rugged knoll just ahead. Their great communal houses, built of massive timbers, lined the shore facing the water. Even from a distance the tall heraldic columns of the houses could be seen, grotesque animal and bird characters carved into the wood and painted in vivid colors. They seemed to reflect the savage grandeur of the country. A log cabin of the American backwoods would have looked puny and crude alongside one of these huge, solidly built structures.

  From his position on the quarterdeck, Caleb Stone watched as three canoes approached his ship. Each was carved from a single cedar log. The faces of the warriors in the canoes were garishly painted in red and black. Their hair was pulled into a knot at the back of the head and powdered with down, then adorned with a black and yellow feather.

  As physical specimens, Caleb was willing to concede that the Tlingit Indians were impressive. The men were tall, frequently reaching six feet in height, bronze-skinned, muscular. They were both clever and treacherous. They walked as lords in this land and they were.

  As their canoes came alongside his vessel, he glanced once at his crew, but they didn’t have to be told to keep a lively eye about for the approach of war canoes from a different direction, a favorite ploy of these insidious savages who preferred taking what they wanted by force rather than trading for it. Most of his crew were veterans in the Northwest fur trade.

  Caleb Stone had made a half dozen voyages here himself, the first as a cabin boy at the age of twelve, then as a common deckhand in the fo’c’sle. On the last trip, he’d sailed as the first mate, taken over command when the captain died at sea, and brought the ship back to its home port of Salem, loaded with a rich cargo of Chinese goods from Canton, where he’d sold the ship’s furs for a handsome sum. Now, at twenty-seven, he sailed as master of the vessel—“coming through the hawse hole,” as the expression went.

  A tall, spare-built man, he had a seaman’s sunburnt cheek and skin the color of teakwood. Long sideburns emphasized his lean jaw and echoed the mahogany cast of his hair. His gray eyes were half hidden by the slight droop of his lids, but always they showed a sharp alertness.

  “They’re takin’ the devil’s own time inspectin’ the cut of our jib,” the first mate, Asa Hicks, observed in a voice dry with suspicion. Caleb made no comment.

  “Boston men!” one of the vermillion-and-black-faced warriors shouted to them, using the term they applied to all Americans because of the large number of ships trading in their waters that carried a Boston registry. By the same token, they referred to the English as King George’s men. “Come trade!” With a wave of his arm, he signaled them to enter the island-studded bay off the brig’s starboard side.

  Shaking his head, Caleb called to the savages, telling them they’d be back another time to trade with them. The canoes continued to keep pace with the
Sea Gypsy, and the invitation was repeated several times, but Caleb ignored it.

  During his winter stop at Hawaii for reprovisions, he had learned from the captains of homeward-bound vessels that the Russians had built a redoubt at Sitka the previous year in an effort to extend their territorial claims to this coastal region and exclude foreign vessels. Caleb intended to make the place that the Russians called Redoubt St. Michael his first port of call and to determine for himself how much of a threat the Russians were.

  Roughly six miles from the entrance to the sound, the Sea Gypsy came upon the settlement that had been built on a stretch of exposed beach. The palisaded fortress was constructed of timbers two feet thick, hewn from the surrounding forest, its upper story extending out two feet from the lower, with watchtowers at two corners. The roofs of several other buildings were visible behind the stockade that surrounded the settlement. A Russian flag snapped crisply in the wind.

  As soon as the ship was at anchor, Caleb ordered the longboat lowered over the side. A contingent of Russians awaited his arrival on the shore. He buttoned his double-breasted pea jacket and left the collar upturned against the sharp wind, then climbed over the side into the yawl. As the sailors hauled on the oars, Caleb scanned the Russian group waiting for him.

  The turbanned lad Caleb recognized easily from the descriptions of captains who had met the English-speaking Bengalese servant of the Russian manager, Baranov. Baranov himself was a short, stockily built man who wore an absurd black wig tied on his head with a colored handkerchief. Caleb had been told that Baranov affected that ridiculous attempt at fashion, but Caleb had thought the stories too ludicrous to be true. He wondered now about the other tales he’d heard concerning the prodigious quantities of liquor Baranov could consume at a single sitting. He looked over the rest of the men standing with the Russian manager, taking note of only one, a blue-eyed man with dark brown hair.

  Zachar observed the meeting between Baranov and the Boston captain, and listened as the Bengalese called Richard identified Captain Stone from the ship Sea Gypsy and relayed his request for permission to send his men ashore to replenish their freshwater supply.

  Two years ago Zachar had left his young daughter, Larissa, in the care of his mother and brother and sailed from Kodiak Island as a member of the colonizing force chosen by Baranov to establish a fortified settlement here on the southeastern coast of the mainland—in the heart of the hostile Kolosh country. Since they’d built the redoubt on the sound, many Boston and English ships had visited it. Zachar had learned many of their words from the seamen who’d come ashore, but not enough to follow a whole conversation.

  As usual, Baranov granted permission and invited the Boston man inside the stockade. This Captain Stone accepted with the same wariness and curiosity that Zachar had seen others show. Zachar trailed behind the company manager as he escorted his visitor inside the stronghold.

  Within the high stockade, guards walked the parapets where the cannons were mounted, their barrels aimed at the dark undergrowth of the flanking forest. A cookhouse, blacksmith’s shop, warehouse, cattle sheds, and the two-story barracks encompassed the central square of the settlement.

  In the square, Zachar’s attention was drawn to only one of the Kolosh women. She was tall, with long, shiny black hair and copper bracelets around her bare ankles. The long-skirted and sleeved garment she wore was made from softly tanned hides that were fastened together at the sides, emphasizing her rounded hips. Over the front of it, she wore an apronlike top made from the same skin.

  Zachar knew that none of these Kolosh—or Tlingit as they called themselves—could be trusted, no matter how willing they were to be bedded for a price. But where the maiden called Daughter of the Raven was concerned, Zachar abandoned all sense of caution. Every time he saw her, he wanted her, regardless of the price he must pay. Today was no different.

  Leaving Baranov’s escort party, he angled across the square. When she saw him approaching, she lifted her chin, certain of his interest in her. Her long, black hair was parted in the middle and fell past her shoulders. Her eyes seemed to pull his gaze into their black centers as if he were, somehow, being absorbed into them.

  He halted in front of her. His tongue felt thick and his throat tight. “You haven’t come to the village in a long time, Raven.” Zachar never used her full name.

  “Zachar missed Raven?” Her eyes seemed to darken with satisfaction as she smiled at him, her lips full and soft, the lower one unmarred by the disfiguring spoon-shaped labret many of the older Kolosh women wore.

  “Yes,” he admitted. He’d lain with her seven short nights ago, but it seemed much longer to him. “Tonight, will you come to my bed?”

  She tipped her head to the side, studying him with a shrewd and knowing look. “Raven wants looking glass.”

  Startled by her demand, Zachar was momentarily speechless. Usually the price of her company was a string of blue beads. A mirror was considerably more expensive. Already he was in debt to the company commissary for more than he was likely to earn this season.

  “Two strings of beads,” he offered hesitantly, reluctant to bargain with her.

  Her look turned cold. “No.” She pivoted to her right.

  Zachar caught her arm before she could walk away from him, regretting his attempt to negotiate and realizing that he had succeeded only in offending her. “A looking glass,” he agreed.

  She regarded him haughtily. “Zachar want Raven—a looking glass and beads.”

  Logic warred with his desires, insisting he should reject her price and let her walk away. If he paid it now, next time she would demand more. He stared at her face, the straight nose and the natural pink of her cheeks. He nodded slowly, angered by his own weakness.

  “A looking glass and beads,” he agreed, then attempted to salvage his pride. “If Raven does not make Zachar happy tonight, no beads.”

  Her lips parted in a knowing smile that mocked him for questioning her ability to satisfy him. “Raven make Zachar happy,” she declared and walked away. He watched her go, feeling a mixture of self-contempt and anticipation.

  In the ten years since the death of his wife, Katya, Zachar had never taken another woman to live with him permanently. During much of that time, his mother had taken over many of a wife’s duties, making all his garments, mending his skin-boat, preparing his meals, and looking after his young daughter, Larissa, and teaching her the things a woman should know. The sexual urges, when they came to him, were easily satisfied by willing Aleut girls in some nearby village.

  And until he’d met Raven, no woman had ever attracted him to the exclusion of others, not even his late wife. It was new and unsettling to him. Sometimes Zachar wished he had stayed behind in Kodiak, that Mikhail’s return hadn’t freed him from the responsibility of his family. Yet he knew that even before Mikhail had come back he had virtually abandoned Larissa to his mother’s care. He was a rough, unschooled hunter; there was nothing he could teach his daughter. Mikhail, with all that he’d learned while in Russia, could give her more than Zachar ever could. Now that his brother was at Kodiak, he could look after their aging mother.

  Zachar kept telling himself that he had no more reason to go back. His family didn’t need him. But, in truth, the thought of never seeing Raven again filled him with a kind of panic.

  The oil lantern swayed with the gentle rocking motion of the brig riding at anchor in the bay. The carved mahogany dining table gleamed, its surface cleared of dishes and cutlery. Only a pair of brandy glasses and a bottle remained. Caleb leaned back in his chair and watched Baranov puff on the cigar being lighted by his servant and constant companion, the young Bengalese named Richard.

  After his meeting with Baranov in the afternoon, Caleb had invited the Russian to dinner on board his ship. Dawson, his steward, bent in a slight bow toward Caleb’s chair and extended his arm to offer Caleb his choice of cigars, trying to be as formal as the English-trained Bengalese. Caleb was amused by the rivalry that his stewa
rd obviously felt toward his Russian counterpart. He waved aside the cigar box. Stiffly, Dawson straightened and silently closed the lid on the box, then set it on the mahogany side table and assumed his position behind Caleb’s chair.

  As the swarthy Richard blew out the taper’s flame, Baranov held the cigar away from his mouth and spoke. Richard translated the compliments on the meal and the excellent quality of the brandy as if he were the one speaking instead of inserting some appendage like “he said” or “he wants you to know.” “I am curious what kind of trade goods you are carrying, Captain,” he stated at the conclusion of the amenities.

  Caleb had known the conversation would eventually get around to the items in his hold.

  “The usual,” Caleb said, looking at Baranov as he spoke. He suspected the Russian understood English better than he pretended. “Scarlet coating, buttons, blankets, copper, Flushing greatcoats, iron chisels.”

  While Richard relayed his answer, Caleb picked up his brandy glass and swirled its contents, then lifted the glass to his mouth, meeting Baranov’s sharp gaze over its rim. Caleb had deliberately omitted any mention of the muskets and rum.

  “What about guns and ammunition?”

  Smiling, Caleb lowered his glass and studied the amber liquor. “I carry those, too—and New England rum,” he admitted, lifting his glance.

  The stern lecture he received from Baranov hardly required a translation. “Trading firearms and liquor to the savages is forbidden in Russian America. It is unwise to arm them with weapons that can be used against you. You must desist from this practice at once.”

  “I have traveled fifteen thousand miles to trade with the Tlingits—or the Kolosh as you call them. I want otter skins and they want guns. I have the guns and they have the otter skins. If that’s their price for the skins, that’s what I’ll pay. I’m a trader.”